


The Further You Fall

by cytryne



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, I don't know how I feel about it, I honestly don't know how to tag this but i know it deserves something, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, POV Elrond, Past Character Death, Post-War of the Ring, Power Imbalance, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Relationships, dark au, it's my first time writing something from his POV, referenced: galadriel. gil-galad., see beginning notes for mentions of, well. kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2020-10-13 18:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cytryne/pseuds/cytryne
Summary: In the midst of the clean-up after destroying the Ring, a discovery was made. Elrond expected his past to remain in the memories brought up by this, not physically in front of him and apparently returned from the dead. AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of: torture, violence, manipulation, possibly abuse?, war,   
Actually talked about in the fic, not just implied: death

“Sir,” Glorfindel said, ease wipes away under the strictness of a soldier. Elrond straightened, almost imperceptibly. He hadn't expected a visit, but Glorfindel's demeanor immediately put him on edge. Business this was, then. “We’ve found a commander, of sorts.”

“A commander? Why alert me? Gondor and our soldiers have taken care of the rest with barely a comment in later reports.”

His friend visibly hesitated. “You’ll...you’ll want to see this one. It’s not like normal.”

“Oh? If you insist, of course I’ll go, but why is this one so important?”

Glorfindel didn’t smile. His voice was as apologetic as possible while this formal, as if he didn’t want to be doing this. Elrond could feel his heart sink even as he stood, chair scraping the ground in his haste. “You’ll see when we get there. They managed to capture him.”

.

Elrond didn’t know what he’d expected, when Glorfindel pulled him aside to give details as to the capture and apologize before allowing him to enter the tent they were keeping this unusual prisoner in, but it wasn’t this. His imagination had its strong points, but even it never could have been so cruel.

The prisoner looked...nondescript, from afar. Taller than normal, for one of Sauron’s servants, but Sauron had been branching out from orcs for years. There were a number of other creatures and peoples rounded amongst his forces now. He was wearing fine armor, black, of a similar design to that of the Mouth or any other higher-ranked officer, but this was clearly not just any armor. Its make was ancient, even for elves. It was not forged with a technique Elrond could recognize from any mortal race. And, while he’d never learned how to forge, he’d seen plenty of variants of those over the years. This was not near any of them. No, it must have come from Sauron himself. Yet, there were elements that felt familiar. The arch of a plate, the form of a gauntlet, the general sense—all of it felt unerringly similar to something he’d known well once, but he couldn’t name it if pressed. It was just...known. The tent was shadowy enough to obscure most features from a distance, but he was curious now, if nothing else.

And then he got closer, and, if he’d been wary before, now he couldn’t breathe with the force of his emotions. He stopped in his tracks with the force of recognition—confusion, anger, and a growing, heart-wrenching fear warring for dominance in his chest. 

They’d taken the commander’s helm off, to reveal pointed ears, entirely too fine silver hair for having come from a battle, and an elegant face that had once struck shivers down his spine and made him forget to breathe.

Now, it struck shivers of an entirely different kind.

Last time he’d seen him, Celebrimbor Curufinwion had been dead. 

On a stick, as a grisly trophy of war, dead. Dead from defying the very person he was now wearing armor from, had been fighting against other elves he’d once died to avoid hurting in the name of that person. And it was Sauron’s work, Elrond recognized now. He’d seen it enough times before, pieces slowly taking over Celebrimbor’s wardrobe before they’d...been estranged for a while. It sickened him, to see him now wearing something that practically screamed ownership from someone who’d so eagerly coaxed him away before.

It seemed Sauron had won that contest after all. 

Bile rose in his throat, but Elrond swallowed, forcing it down enough to let slip a quiet “Celebrimbor?”

His voice was quiet, shaky in its disbelief. He didn’t know what had happened—didn’t want to know, but had to know in the same instant—but he had to check. Had to make sure his eyes weren’t lying to him. He yearned to reach out, to touch Celebrimbor’s mind like they used to, but something held him back. Some hidden caution that kept him from going any closer until he had answers. 

Slowly, Celebrimbor turned his head to look at him. Hair slid over his cheekbones as he did, one part of Elrond noted distantly, hair entirely too healthy and shiny for someone who’d been tortured into fighting and imprisoned for centuries. Their eyes met. The depths in Celebrimbor’s were immense, and cold.

Celebrimbor didn’t speak.

“How?” Elrond asked finally, scanning over Celebrimbor again in a desperate excuse not to hold his gaze. He’d never seen him so...intimidating. There was nothing inviting, no warmth, no kindness. Nothing that had made him _him_. 

“I . . . I didn’t stay dead for long, once I died.” Short, to the point, but hesitant as if remembering bad memories. Quiet in a way that didn’t match the exterior. 

But Celebrimbor had replied, and the cadence was exactly as he remembered. It washed over him in a wave, making Elrond want to go over and touch him, apologize for all he’d suffered, try to help. But something held him back. The signs he’d seen didn’t match the words coming out. His response came tumbling out, words nearly rushing over each other, hoping for something to deny the suspicion he couldn’t erase.

“What happened? Why didn’t you surrender, once you saw our forces coming? No one would’ve hurt you, once they realized you weren’t a threat.”

“I couldn’t.”

Elrond watched his face, but nothing changed. He could have been carved from marble, for all he showed. There was little to no emotion in his voice, either. And that...that of all things wasn’t right. Celebrimbor had always shown emotion when he talked, wether he wanted to or not. It didn’t matter what it was about. 

Elrond took a step back, and hardened himself. He was too old to be this vulnerable. Celebrimbor was centuries—a family—behind him. “You’re lying. What happened, Celebrimbor? Why were you amongst Sauron’s forces? What happened, between your apparent death and now?”

Celebrimbor tilted his head to the side, coolly analyzing in a way he’d never been. It highlighted his features, this look. Fit in with the arch of his brows and strength of his jaw in a way kindness never had. Like a king, regardless of being bound. 

Elrond was suddenly glad he’d never met Curufin. 

“And why should I answer you? A constantly orphaned peredhel, with everyone you’ve ever served dead. Even your wife died, with your children just as sure to abandon you as your brother.”

He recoiled, angry at the comments. The Elda he’d cared about would never have been so cruel. Vilya dug into his skin as his hands curled, but he didn’t care. Sadness and an anger he couldn’t decide who to direct it at made him turn, to send a glare at the tent wall and hide his face while composing himself. Even now, he couldn’t persuade himself to actually direct that anger at Celebrimbor. 

“Did you join him willingly?” The words came out quick and short, his emotions only serving to make him go straight to the point.

“I died. It was only for an instant, but it was enough.” The response was nearly as bitter as the question, a lash of emotions quickly turned icy as he continued. “And then yes, I did. You would have too, if dying only confirmed a previously vague terror that there is no after for you because of something you didn’t have a hand in.”

Hatred laced his every word, and Elrond nearly turned back to face him at the horror his words inspired. He breathed in, shocked, but Celebrimbor continued. It was like he couldn’t stop, now that he’d stopped.

“He offered something other than horror for something I did not say. Than the constant knowledge that after everything, this still happened. Why would I not be a willing participant? He sent me there, but he pulled me back from it once he realized what had happened, and that is so much more than they would have done.”

Elrond couldn’t speak. He couldn’t. If Celebrimbor had been about to go there, when he died, Maedhros definitely had. He couldn’t process that and stay here. 

Quick strides took him to the edge of the tent, his breath uneven, but he glanced back at the entrance despite himself. Celebrimbor stayed there, unrepentant.

He couldn’t blame him.


	2. The View from the Top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn Sauron for this. Elrond doesn't know what to do, but it's definitely Sauron's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to write this. 
> 
> And then I spent eight extra hours traveling.

_You would have too_. _You would have too_.

Elrond grimaced, rubbing at his temples. He couldn’t stop hearing that phrase, repeated over and over again. The bitter pain echoed through his memory, representing the rest of that terrible, terrible discovery in one haunting sentence.

He’d never known Celebrimbor was that scared of the Void. He hadn’t even known it was still thought of as a possibility in his mind. And that he—that their respective fathers, too—could have gone there . . . Elrond didn’t know how to stand it. He still couldn't find it in himself to blame Celebrimbor for his choice, but he'd undoubtedly done so many terrible things as a result of that choice. It was understandable, it was reasonable in that instance, but it was still . . . 

And the _Void_. He'd contented himself for years with Maedhros being in the Halls. Dead, but in the Halls. With his family again. To have that certainty broken wasn't . . .

It _had_ to have been a trick. It must have. For some reason, Celebrimbor must have trusted Annatar with that secret when he’d never even considered breathing a word of it to Elrond. Sauron must have then somehow made Celebrimbor believe it was happening after he’d killed him, to make him desperate and easy to wrap around his finger. He’d always liked that. It stung, but it was the better option. The Valar wouldn’t have _lied_ about the Feanorions going to Mandos. That wasn’t what they were like. Sauron would be much more likely to lie than they would be to do that.

It made sense.

Didn’t it?

It had been nearly a week and Elrond still didn’t know what to do with Celebrimbor. Glorifindel had moved him to a more permanent cell in Gondor--loaned by Aragorn--once he’d seen him walk out of his cell in a horrified daze. He hadn’t pressed since, but Elrond knew he had to do something about it. He couldn’t just leave the captured Noldo there with no decisions being made. Even putting aside the risk of leaving an old and probably unstable Curufinwion in the hands of humans, it would be cruel to Celebrimbor. He was so different now, he was an active supporter of _Sauron_—most anyone would say it was justified. But he’d still been a . . . friend who’d spent over a year imprisoned. It might not matter to him anymore but Elrond couldn’t knowingly leave him in limbo like that for the second time in his life. He wasn’t Sauron.

But what _could_ he do? There was too much he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. It hurt to think about, someone he’d cared for so much for so long finally actually succumbing. It _couldn’t_ have been completely innocent. There was no way it actually happened like that. He refused to accept it. But he couldn’t guarantee it was actually a trick, and Celebrimbor had chosen to join Sauron and probably done terrible things. But it was after _torture_. After _years_ of constantly working against him. There wasn’t an easy right or wrong. 

With a sinking heart, he knew he had to actually go talk to Celebrimbor again.

.

The calls were cold, Elrond noticed. Not overwhelmingly as to be terrible for an Elda, but enough that it was clear they were far from the sun. It was unpleasant.

He approached Celebrimbor’s cell slowly. It was the last in the row next to the guard, with all the rest empty. Fear and anxiety at what he’d find made him hesitate, yet he’d been in command too long to actually pause as he once would have. Duty changed things.

It had clearly changed Celebrimbor as well. Stripped of that terribly possessive armor, he made for a decidedly foreboding image.He shouldn’t have. He was only sitting, back to the wall, hands clasped loosely in his lap, absently staring off into space. Elrond had seen him like that dozens of times, his features softened in torchlight as he thought through something. It would have been an invitation if they were younger.

But now, the dim lighting only served to highlight features. He sat as still as the metal he was so fond of, posture even more perfect that it used to be, barely even breathing, eyes snapping to Elrond as he approached. He didn’t even seem touched by the temperature. Celebrimbor had always had a natural resistance to the cold, but this . . . another thing to find discomforting.

He pulled the guard’s chair away from the wall to in front of Celebrimbor’s cell, the human guard having gracefully bowed out when he saw him enter. The scrape echoed in the quiet.

Elrond sat. Celebrimbor didn’t react. The silence weighed down on them.

Finally . . . “Are you alright?” Elrond asked. He’d meant to start with something else, anything else, but he couldn’t. Celebrimbor was so wrong like this.

“I am.”

Elrond searches his face, but nothing showed. It was as if he hadn’t said anything at all. “This isn’t—you aren’t—“ he fumbled, feeling so out of his depth. He wanted to ask this as he would a patient of his, to make sure their situation wasn’t making things worse. He wanted to know for his peace of mind. But he’d avoided the topic of the imprisonment and torture of people he care about since childhood. Asking about it didn’t sit naturally.

“He always preferred heat. Heat, and odd comfort. You have the two confused.”

The sheer lack of . . . negative emotion in his voice hurt. He sounded like he made a comment on the weather, not his death. No one should be able to sound so normal when talking about their own trauma.

You’re there but you’re different, Elrond thought, like a twisted reflection of what you should have been. What happened to you, he wanted to ask. Instead, the question came out without his volition, like most of the conversation so far. Quiet, desperate, hopeful.

“Do you really believe Maedhros—they—went to the Void?”

And finally, he saw emotion. Celebrimbor’s face twisted briefly, his lips pulled tight and thin. He closed his eyes for a second, and only opened them as he spoke. This was the closest Elrond had seen him to his old self yet.

“I hoped. For weeks and months I hoped. I’d convinced myself my fear was baseless, that I’d end up in the Halls once I died despite my mistakes.” Elrond listened, as Celebrimbor’s voice lowered and bitterness warred with fear. “But I know what I saw when I died, and it was not the Halls. Complete and other . . . _nothingness_. The worst thing I have ever seen.”

“But the Valar—“

“The Valar _lied_. They’re good at that. Lies and thievery. Did you know my grandfather _never_ gave permission for the Silmarilli to be blessed? But they _were,_ despite his disagreement over something _he_ created. Why _wouldn’t_ they lie about their fates? It would fit their attitude towards my family.”

Elrond didn’t know if he was about to cry or yell. His retort came out the moment he thought of it, regardless of how wise it may be. “And if I asked you how much of that is your own thoughts, and how much of it is Sauron’s opinion? He’s always been good at telling you what to do.”

Celebrimbor leaned forward, eyes dark. He’d never been quick to anger. That, along with his propensity for cruelty, appeared to have flourished. As if Elrond needed any more confirmation that he wasn’t just forced into it. Sauron would have never been happy with a cringing Celebrimbor as a servant.

How much of him had been destroyed and replaced to Sauron’s liking over the years?

“I am still my own person, Elrond _Earendilion_. If you do not remember my distrust of the Valar, then perhaps fault lies in your own personality. Why would I have confused anything in you, with your blind devotion to them despite your own adopted parents’ fates?”

The words stung deeply, hitting all the spot they were meant to. Elrond leaned forward, mirroring his distant cousin. He didn’t quite yell, though it came close. “How _many_ terrible things did you do for him, then, as 'your own person'? I look at you and see little but Sauron’s creature. What _were_ you for him?”

Celebrimbor leaned back, that cool, disinterested look slicing into his eyes as he took a deep breath. When he spoke again, it was calm.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

.

Elrond leaned even further forward with a heavy sigh, resting his head on his hands. He’d hoped so much for any other answer, any evidence that he was wrong. But Celebrimbor didn’t want to give him that.

“What am I supposed to _do_ with you, Celebrimbor?” His voice nearly broke, and he felt old. Old and immeasurably sad. “I can’t in good conscience send you to the Valar for judgement, not when there’s the slightest chance they mean you ill for simply existing, but neither can I keep you prisoner forever. You don’t deserve that.”

He looked up at his , and Celebrimbor stared impassively back.

“Neither can I just kill you. I never could have done that, but now we’re two of the only ones left who’ve been through it all. It’s selfish but. . . death would be too hard. And yet you regret nothing, so I can’t just set you free. What am I supposed to do with a dead man?”

He didn’t wait for a response, not trusting this new Celebrimbor to give one. Instead Elrond stood, pulled the chair back, and stopped in front of Celebrimbor.

“I loved you once. It hurts to see that Noldo so completely gone now in favor of something he never would have believed in. It's worse to know it started from fear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever start something, think it'll be perfectly fine, are perfectly fine with it for months, and then suddenly end up overly emotionally committed?
> 
> I blame finals.
> 
> Elrond's gonna regret like most of that last part the moment he stops being mad. He's upset and hurt and worried and stressed and apparently not showing it well at all. He doesn't actually blame him, he just wants to have a solution, went to find one, isn't finding one, and apparently they're setting each other off. I didn't expect this to end up being half arguing, but to be fair I didn't expect it in the first place.


	3. Is Beautiful But Fleeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd take any sign of life at this point. Still, couldn't Celebrimbor have chosen any other topic?
> 
> .
> 
> Apparently catching up on centuries of family and friends' news with your turned-Enemy former-lover is awkward. Who would have guessed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I write this the more of a plot I have, and yet I still have no clue when anything is going to happen. Amazing how that works.

“You haven’t told Artanis I’m here.” 

The Elda’s voice made Elrond jump, looking up from where he’d just been staring off into space. He’d visited Celebrimbor multiple times now, hoping for engagement or regret or explanations or something. He’d take nearly _anything_ at this point. Any sign he could avoid just . . . giving up on him. But Celebrimbor had remained silent until now, seemingly perfectly fine with just sitting in a cell for days on end. He never would have before. He’d have been still, but chaffing. Looking for ways to do anything. Was this a result of the torture, or the personality and moral change? Was there even a difference?

Of all the possible first conversation topics, though, Galadriel was _not_ what he’d expected. Still, he wasn’t about to discourage it. Any conversation could help. 

“How could you tell?” No one had told him that. Elrond knew no one had. Very few people had access, and even fewer were willing to talk to him right now. His existence and betrayal was still too raw.

Celebrimbor’s eyes glinted, their own natural glow uncanny in the dark. Elrond was forcibly reminded he’d been born while the Trees still existed.

“Was it supposed to be a secret? She hasn’t come to gloat. I did depose her, after all. My Rings ought to garner at least an hour. Finding a Curufinwion working for her Enemy? She should be thrilled.”

_Her _Enemy, he noticed, not _The_. It wasn’t worth mentioning, not now, but it stung nonetheless. But it was hardly the most important part of that little rant. The accusations were harsher, the sheer certainty that Galadriel would solely be thrilled unsettling, the tone pleased where it would have been mildly guilty at the reminder of his previous actions, but the complaint as a whole? It was the closest he’d gotten to something he would have done before all this.

Galadriel and Celebrimbor had never gotten along. As far as he knew it had been like this since Celebrimbor was old enough to even talk. With reason, Elrond likes her and she could be overbearing and arrogant at times. But after Alqualonde she had disliked all Feanorians on principle. Celebrimbor’s absolute instance on referring to her as Artanis only worsened it. At times it was hilarious. He would call her that in public, when she couldn’t retort, and they’d watch her get more and more irritated and then laugh about it later. 

Disparaging his wife’s mother should not make him hopeful, and yet it did. 

“It’s possible. You’d dislike her more now, I’m afraid. She stays . . .” Elrond trailed off, considering Celebrimbor for a second. He’d spent centuries with Sauron. How much could he say to him? He didn’t seem prepared to escape, or try to do anything against them at all. But would he even understand?

“How . . . up to date have you been on events throughout the years?”

Celebrimbor shifted positions for the first time since he’d come down, pulling his legs in front of him and leaning against the wall rather than sitting upright. His face remained completely, unnaturally unreadable. Not even the changed body gave anything away. It seemed relaxed, but he could have been about to cry for all Elrond knew. Another skill torture had to have developed.

“Reasonably. I was not aware of every change, but I knew most large happenings, as well as anything related to a duty of one kind or another. I do know you got married, and had children. I did not believe it when I heard it.”

The new ability to make everything instantly uncomfortable was _definitely_ picked up from Sauron. The monster had always enjoyed watching people squirm, even as Annatar.

“Yes, I’m . . . very proud of them.” What else was he supposed to say to that?

“She sailed, yes?” Celebrimbor didn’t wait for a response, continuing, as casual as he could be. Elrond almost wished he’d stop. “I know Gil-Galad died. It was the sole point of pride in that whole mess.”

“_Pride_?” 

Elrond asked, hoping against all hope all judgement was out of his voice. Celebrimbor had liked Gil-Galad. He always called him Ereinion, a level of familiarity few people reached. It had never been confirmed, of course, but there’d been enough rumors of their relationship in the beginning of the Second Age that Elrond always suspected it used to be more. That was fine. They’d all been . . . but, well, pride was not an expected feeling. 

Celebrimbor blinked. He moved his left leg up, crossing it over the other, and Elrond got the distinct feeling that, for the first time this conversation, he’d managed to make him uncomfortable. What was it that triggered that? That made him seem more. . .a Noldo, again? One whose viewpoints had changed, but wanted to interact and was willing to argue and consider things again. 

If he could only figure that out, maybe he could . . . maybe he could—his gut twisted in an almost painful spike of hope, making it hard to concentrate on the response. 

“I—of course it was pride.” Celebrimbor’s tone remained the same, but he hesitated now, not quick enough to change that into some form of arrogance that would suit correction. Uncertain like before. “Gil-Galad had disagreed with the independence of Ost-in-Edhil for years. He tried to hold it back even before becoming my enemy. Should I not have been proud he was killed by Mairon? He was the High King. It had the strongest effect of that entire battle, even though we encountered a setback.”

The first part of that was word-for-word something Annatar would have said. Elrond has heard him suggest as much before. He opened his mouth to point that out, then closed it again. Celebrimbor had reacted badly to him pointing the repetition out before. No matter how uncomfortable conversation was, silence and anger would be less useful.

Instead, he nodded. “What did you do once Sauron was . . . temporarily defeated after that battle? We searched Mordor as much as possible. There were no signs of you.”

“What did you do once your Lord died? I did my best to continue, and stayed with him.”

“You did?”

“It was needed. Would anyone have accepted me anywhere else? I had chosen him, so I stayed.” _I chose him_, Celebrimbor kept saying, but Elrond couldn’t help but wonder if it were true. He’d been tortured. He’d thought he went to the Void—and maybe he did. Could that really count as a choice? They didn’t blame Maedhros for the information he’d given up under torture. How much could cooperation truly be blamed? How much of this could have been prevented? How much of the blame could be put on Sauron rather than Celebrimbor? How many people could be persuaded of that?

That could just work.

“Did you want to?”

“I didn’t _not_ want to.” Another avoidance. An answer without actually answering anything. 

They lapsed into silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts. The discussion hurt. He felt heavy, tired, weighed down by all of the hell Celebrimbor had dealt with. Even without knowing it all yet, it was almost too much. Everything had changed, and he blamed everyone except the person he should. 

Celebrimbor shifted again, knees coming up in front of his chest. He leaned forward, rested his head on the tops, and clearly tried to make his next comment casual. It failed, the tone too low, timid, and pauses uneven. It felt . . . anxious.

“We never discovered what had happened to Canafinwe.”

Elrond watched him for a long moment, wondering what his reaction would be. Sadness? Anger? Nothing, again? Then he nodded. “He’s alive. Not with us, but he . . . stops by Imladris on occasion, for supplies and to meet my children. He hasn’t succumbed to the Oath, though he’s not healed yet. It got worse after you . . . died. I . . . hope we will be able to help him soon.”

He blinked thrice rapidly, then tilted his head back, light reflecting off his neck as he rested against the wall. Little was visible, though his voice remained as forced as before. “That’s—good. I’d . . . wondered.”

He didn’t move or say anything again, for a long time. 

They both pretended the shining trails down his neck didn't exist.

.

Back at his desk, Elrond wrote out everything he could remember that could have been of use, in as exact words as he could remember. Any mentions of Sauron, of his life, of people they knew. Next time, he’d come prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to call this a lighter chapter, but honestly I'm not sure it deserves that. A lot of hints were dropped, someone cried, things happened. Thoughts? Anything you've picked up on?
> 
> I ship Celebrimbor with honestly so many people and a number have appeared lmao. There's so many good ship options, it's a bummer they aren't more popular. Guess I'll just have to populate the tags myself.
> 
> I have no clue when the next chapter will be--it'll either be tomorrow or in a few months cause the semester is about to start again.


	4. The World Seems to Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. This was not going well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for: suicidal idealization, manipulation, bad handling of mental health issues, self-hatred, implied stockholm syndrome (which ao3 glitches whenever i try to tag for some reason), mentions of: torture, abuse, 
> 
> It's getting darker. Keep in mind that they're both...very unreliable narrators.

“Tell me what happened after Ost-in-Edhil was captured. I want to know.”

His voice was steady, determined. Detached. If he thought too hard about what he was asking, what he was demanding him relive, that it was Celebrimbor not just someone he was trying to heal, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. He’d give up immediately and this would never be finished.

The Noldo leaned forward from his usual place against the wall, eyes hard and face as blank as it had ever been. He seemed completely recovered from his tears the other day. Expected, but still as hard as ever to look at. Of course he wouldn’t want to look as vulnerable as that when still . . . something like enemies.

“Do you.”

It was said flatly, not as an accusation, but Elrond floundered nonetheless, his forced calm deserting him. “Yes it’s—you’re so different now, and we’ve talked about parts of it and—I want to understand what you’ve been through. I want to help you.”

Instantly, he knew that was the wrong thing to say. Celebrimbor’s face contorted, the edges of his lips turning down even as his nose wrinkled up in a disgusted sneer. A lesser man would have cowered, his refined features only increasing the sheer instinctive sense of danger that look inspired. Centuries had dampened his memories of Maedhros’s rage, but even the reflection of it chilled him to the core. Noldor were the most common base of Morgoth’s monsters for a reason. Their fire naturally burned bright, their shadows enough to horrify most creatures when angered. Feanorians more than most.

Celebrimbor, however, had always had control of his. His every other reaction had indicated he should have gained more control, not less. This was wrong.

“So you ask about my city’s sacking, torture, and death. So _very_ helpful and caring of you.”

The sarcasm was suffocating. 

“It was the beginning of it all,” Elrond insisted, determined not to be distracted from his goal. He’d started, he’d made Celebrimbor angry, he’d risked making him remember some of the worst parts of his life, he had to finish it. “You need help, but I can’t if I don’t completely understand how and why this came to happen. You were tortured, and then brought back from the Void—your very worst fear—by your torturer. What you do under that kind of threat isn’t—“

“—You think you can convince me I didn’t _actually_ choose any of it because I was once tortured. That that would be enough to _‘save’_ me from myself and others,” Celebrimbor cut in, cold as ice and half as welcoming. Elrond stopped in his tracks. He’d forgotten just how perceptive Celebrimbor could be when he wanted to be. It wasn’t like he’d made a secret of what he thought had happened to him, not with his reactions before and comments just then, but he should have expected Celebrimbor would figure out what he wanted to do with it. He just hadn’t.

This was not going at all like how he’d intended.

“You can’t _‘save’_ me,” he sneered, all roiling hatred and pain mixed into one, each word striking deliberately at Elrond’s composure and desperate hopes. “There is nothing here _to_ save. I made all my own choices, completely aware of what was happening. And you know what, I _liked_ it. I _liked_ working with him, I _liked_ fighting for him, I liked _fucking_ him, even though he had tortured me. _Your concept of ‘saving’ is impossible_.”

As he spoke, Celebrimbor stood from his sitting position, tension obvious in all lines of his body. He even paced forward a few steps closer, arms crossed tightly. Elrond struggled, reaching for something, anything, to say in response to that to keep his position. He needed this. He needed information and reactions, but not this. This was dangerous. A cell hardly felt like enough to contain Celebrimbor should it be necessary.

“Then I’ll save your _life_, if not your mind.”

After he said it, he grimaced. That was not a good way to word it. Celebrimbor appraised him, as unimpressed as he would be with a bug. “Is that really so much better than the alternatives?”

“I _asked!_” Burst out, loudly. He knew he shouldn’t, but in the rush of irritation and fatigue Elrond hardly cared. Day after day they’d done things like this, and it wander helping. He just refused to even start. ”I gave you a chance to choose! And you said _nothing_. How am I supposed to do anything with that except what I think is best? I want you to live, to heal, to have a _chance_. You can’t do that if you die.”

“Would death really be such a terrible option?” The cool words made Elrond’s stomach drop, their restraint in the face of his anger only proving how serious he was about it. As he kept talking, his voice onto got more intense and he began to gesture at the walls to punctuate the words.”I was _supposed_ to have died with my city and lived for _one_ reason and one reason _alone_. There has only been _one_ constant in my life since even before then, and he’s _gone_. Why would I _want_ to live in a time that does not belong to me, when everything I’ve built has been ripped away time and _time _again. No one would understand me, nor accept me, nor listen to anything I say beyond what they want to hear. I can’t even trust _you_ to do so. Why should I _want_ to keeping living on borrowed time? I should have _died_ with my family. There is no place for a Feanorian past the First Age, if there ever was.”

“The Void—“

“—_and_ what alternative would you offer me? The elves are leaving for Valinor, I’ve been keeping track of it. Soon all that will be here are the mortals, and they are fundamentally _incapable_ of even _starting_ to understand me. We unsettle them even by _existing_ in a world that was ours before it was theirs. Would you sentence me to living amongst them, permanently alone when they _die_ before I can even start to know them?”

The Noldo kept going, hands flying, face unusually expressive. If only he couldn’t hear the words and he weren’t in a cell, it would look like any normal day when he’d felt relaxed enough to actually show how much he cared about whatever argument he’d had that time. Normal. But with the worst possible topic.

“Or would you _force_ me to Valinor in chains, to live surrounded by people who have hated my family since before the Trees were even destroyed, ruled by _self-styled_ gods who tried to force my grandfather to give up his property and cursed it so we could not even touch it. I would be _despised_, forced to live a life of solitude to not be killed. _You_ do not know the elves who remained there. _I_ do. They would not look kindly upon me. Imprisonment would be lucky.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but found he couldn’t. All these terrible, hurtful accusations kept pouring out, but they were right, weren’t they? Twisted to assume the worst, but fundamentally those were his options, weren’t they? Things he’d decided without Celebrimbor’s permission.

But Celebrimbor wanted to die. He had to remember that. Those weren’t the words and desires of someone rational, they were tainted by fear and eons of constant manipulation. Living wouldn’t be as terrible as he implied. Even if he didn’t manage to heal, there would be people he liked, things he thought worthwhile, a life somewhere. Not everyone would hate him. 

He had to cling to that.

“I don’t want to _force_ you into anything,” he started, needing to placate Celebrimbor if nothing else. An angry Noldo was dangerous. A Feanorian? Easily disastrous. “I will never, if I can help it. But what you say is so impossibly different than what you would have said before you were tortured that I _am not comfortable_ acting on your word now.”

“People change over centuries,” Celebrimbor interjected, quieter than before but no less bitter. 

“People _do_ change. They _do_. But you are not acting as if you are alright right now. From everything I know of you now, your own distress not that long ago at the idea of going to the Void, this feels wrong. Until I have proof you are rational and in control of yourself, in a manner true to yourself, I am going to do what the you I know would have wanted. If you still want to die once that has happened, I . . . won’t stop it. But I will not allow you to do something rash and permanent when you have not even given life a chance. If that means you have to go somewhere or do something you don’t want to, I’m sorry but that’s what you’ll have to do. At least until you’ve given it a chance. I’m a _healer_. It’s not acceptable for me to just give up on someone.”

He walked over to the cell, kneeling down outside of it and reaching a hand through the bars into the darkness of the cell. Enough to extend his hand, palm up, in an offer to help, acceptance, all those things Celebrimbor had been missing. Celebrimbor moved further back, breath heavy and eyes wild. Elrond wasn’t bothered. 

“I promise. I don’t want you to suffer.”

Shaking his head, Celebrimbor pressed back against the wall as much as possible. He hid himself in the shadows, avoiding the hand like it were a threat. “You say that and you will hurt me by that.”

“Then talk to me. Convince me you’re _you_ and you’ve had control, and you aren’t being unduly influenced, and that this . . . _want_ for death is genuinely what you want and not only because you lost the person controlling you. That you did actually have the freedom to choose to support him without being threatened with pain and death and more loss if you didn’t do what he said. Because right now? All I can see says that you were punished if you didn’t do what he wanted. Convince me of all that, make a genuine attempt to handle life now, and I’ll let you do whatever you want instead of deciding for you. Because you’re right, I haven’t been to Valinor and don’t know how they’d treat you. I believe they’ve learned since their treatment of Maeglin, and if you go having been manipulated and tortured into your actions you will be let off lightly. But I don’t know that for sure, so I’m giving you a chance.”

Elrond pulled his arm back through the bars and withdrew. Like a cornered animal, Celebrimbor stayed pressed against the walls. He felt so small like that, anxious and _terrified_ and it hurt that he was responsible for it.

“I shouldn’t have told you this in anger, because I don’t want to force you into anything. You deserve to have choices. But that is my intention should it prove necessary.”

“I—What—How—“ In a stark contrast to his early fluent persuasion, the Noldo struggled, the words forced and tripping over themselves. Unsure. Was it asking a question, or the situation, or conversation, or what? Either way, he needed help. A guide for the conversation. Elrond was almost tempted to leave and come back later, once Celebrimbor had had time to compose himself, but then he would risk Celebrimbor being _too_ prepared. Ready and able to hide anything.

“Tell me what happened, in _your_ view. As much or as little detail as you want, whichever is easier.”

“I don’t—“ Celebrimbor breathed in, and out, eyes closing, and nodded. He slid down to the floor, burying his head between his knees as his arms came up to encircle them. It was hard to tell, in the dark, but the grip looked painfully tight, nails digging into his wrist. When he spoke again, it was muffled but understandable.

“It—I could start with Eregion, but things happened—before. When we weren’t talking anymore before . . . I knew who Annatar was. After he’d left to travel. I was . . . preoccupied with the Rings, and . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Celebrimbor's tale
> 
> I have a general plan for this now, though details of how long it'll actually be are very vague. Thoughts? Comments? I will say that this chapter was not my finest work, but I wanted to get it out before starting my essays bc this is my last break for a while so -shrug- This is going to involve parts of stories I haven't posted and parts of ones I have, so that'll be fun. Going to start involving other characters soon too.

**Author's Note:**

> So, questions? Thoughts?
> 
> If you haven’t figured it out, yes, Celebrimbor/Elrond happened in the past. A lot. I didn’t expect it to happen in this fic but it did and I now want to write more about that whole situation. Elrond does basically blame Annatar for seducing Celebrimbor away from the thing they had. 
> 
> In this, Celebrimbor is convinced he saw the Void when he died. That view was encouraged. He didn’t, but I couldn’t find a way to put that into this considering neither of them or anyone else alive would know that. Of course, whether or not he even died is debatable. It could go either way.   
As always, this is very headcanon-heavy. Anything you don't get may have been in my drabble series or a different fic, but I welcome questions or comments on them.
> 
> I’ll be honest, I didn’t know any of this fic would happen before I started writing. I discovered this would even exist in the midst of making coffee and had to rush through it while simultaneously trying to not forget what my head came up with while doing so.
> 
> EDIT: As I’m editing/posting this (that’s a first) I realize I have a hell of a lot of ideas for Elrond/Celebrimbor so that may be appearing once I have both time/energy AND motivation without procrastinating either homework or sleeping to write (let’s be real, I’ll write it instead of sleeping anyway [I say as my flatmate actively yells at me for doing just that and I look at the pile of homework I'll regret having to do tomorrow]). Honestly, where is this ship inspiration coming from I don’t generally write shippy things that aren’t 90% pain


End file.
